


The Desperate Housewives Job

by ScoutLover



Category: Leverage
Genre: Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 18:07:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScoutLover/pseuds/ScoutLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Is a little appreciation too much to ask for?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Desperate Housewives Job

“What is that?”

Hardison stopped and looked down at the stack of two plates, a bowl, glass, two forks and a spoon he was holding over the sink. “What’s it look like?”

Eliot stared hard at him, hands on his hips, a dish towel thrown over his left shoulder, his chest, stomach and upper thighs covered by an apron. “Seriously?” he growled, brows drawn low over stormy blue eyes. “ _Now?_ I just _did_ the dishes, Hardison. You couldn’t have brought that shit in five minutes ago?”

He grinned and shrugged. “Hey, sorry, man. How was I supposed to know you were doin’ dishes?”

Eliot glared harder and snatched his right hand from his hip to jab his forefinger toward the sink. “’Cause I was standin’ right there, elbows deep in suds and hot water and hollerin’ for y’all to bring me your dirty dishes!” he snarled. “What the hell did you _think_ I was doin’?”

Hardison snorted in disbelief. “Really? _Suds?_ Nate’s got a dishwasher, man–”

“And there’s no dishwasher in the world that gets all the crap off dishes if you don’t pre-wash ’em first,” Eliot snapped. “’Specially when the dishes just _sit_ there. ’Cause it’s not like y’all rinse ’em off when you’re done, no matter how many times I ask! You just drop ’em in the sink and walk away, like you think they magically rinse themselves! Ain’t enough I cook the food, I also gotta scrape it off your fuckin’ plates!”

Hardison blinked and shifted uneasily on his feet, feeling strangely as if he were back in Nana’s kitchen and getting nailed for leaving the leftovers out on the table. Eliot even cussed like Nana. “I–”

“Do y'all ever think about _me_?” Eliot asked, managing to sound pissed and hurt at the same time. “Do you have any idea what I _go_ through for y’all?” He flung an arm toward the front door. “I’m out there beatin’ up bad guys – bad _guys_ , ’cause there’s never just _one_ – and lettin’ _them_ beat on _me_ so you can hack into somebody’s computer or Parker can crack somebody’s safe or Nate can mess with somebody’s mind or Sophie can convince some dumb asshole she’s the Princess of Persia or whatever. Then at the end of the day, when y’all are high-fivin’ and Nate’s doin’ that gloatin’ thing he does, I drag _my_ bruised ass into the kitchen and cook a decent meal so I know you’re not stuffin’ yourself on Pop-Tarts and Cheetos and Parker’s eatin’ somethin’ besides sugar-coated cereal or fuckin’ fortune cookies! Seriously, how that girl has any teeth left is beyond me! And Nate – don’t even _get_ me started on Nate!” he railed. “Man’s a goddamned genius, but it’s all he can do to toast bread! Hell, I put white cheddar on the grocery list, and he brings home fuckin’ _Velveeta_! How the hell am I supposed to make _white cheddar cheese soup_ with fuckin’ _Velveeta_?”

Hardison backed up a step and clutched his dishes to his chest, blinking rapidly as his synapses started to fry. Eliot was bitching about … _cheese?_ And dirty dishes and–

No. No no no. Oh, _hell_ no! Eliot Spencer was _not_ whining about being somebody’s unappreciated _wife_! That was just _wrong_ on _so_ many levels! The man _beat up people_ and _stole their shit_ for a living, he liberated small countries and slept with women who’d probably shot him–

And, by the way, Alec Hardison did _not_ eat Cheetos, thank you very much. Nobody wanted that orange shit all inside a keyboard–

What the hell?

Eliot tossed his head, shaking his long hair out of his face, and the silver rings in his ears glinted in the light. And, seriously, just when had Eliot started wearing _earrings_ anyway? Like the bracelets weren’t enough? Or the turquoise and silver beads he wore in those little braids–

Hardison blinked again.

Really? _Braids?_ The man was _braiding his hair_ now?

“I suppose you expect _me_ to wash those,” Eliot said in a tight voice, folding his arms against his chest and staring accusingly at Hardison’s dishes. “Like I haven’t already spent all night in this fuckin’ kitchen.” He huffed out a sharp breath. “Dishwasher’s loaded and ready to go, sink’s clean and the counter’s been wiped down, everything’s put up. I _was_ gonna make myself some tea and sit down for a while, maybe watch a little TV, but, oh no, not yet, ’cause Geekboy couldn’t tear himself away from World of Witchcraft long enough to bring–”

“Warcraft,” Hardison corrected automatically, staring now at the silver necklace hanging around Eliot’s neck. At least it wasn’t pearls …

And, no. Just, _no_! He was _not_ thinking that!

Eliot frowned. “What?”

Hardison tried to shake the image of Eliot in pearls out of his mind. Tried not to think of Nana. Or June Cleaver. A June Cleaver who could snap him in half. And would know the best way to get bloodstains out of the tile–

“World of _Warcraft_ , not _Witchcraft_ ,” he mumbled, wondering exactly when Eliot the hitter had become Eliot the housewife. Had to be the hair. And the cooking. But definitely the hair. Because the man _did_ have seriously nice hair. Long and thick and shiny, with just the right amount of curl, just like all those women in those shampoo and conditioner commercials.

Eliot could be a Clairol girl–

And, shit, now his brain was cramping.

“Whatever!” Eliot growled. He heaved a martyred sigh and gestured impatiently toward the sink. “Fine, just put ’em in,” he groused, raising his left hand to his right shoulder. “Ain’t like I was done or anything.”

Hardison felt a sharp twinge of guilt as he watched Eliot rub at his shoulder and remembered the blow with the axe handle the man had taken there yesterday. Still had to hurt like a son of a bitch–

“Naw, I’ll do it,” he said, stepping back to the sink and setting his dishes down in it. “You’ve done enough. You go sit down, put your feet up. Just not on the coffee table. ’Cause, you know, your boot heels–”

And, oh God, now _he_ was doin’ it–

Eliot relaxed at last and smiled, reaching out to clap him on the shoulder with his usual, and strangely reassuring, force. “Thanks, man, I appreciate that.” He walked away, untying his apron at the back and slipping it off over his head, then hung it on the hook in the wall. “Oh, Hardison?”

He turned away from the sink. “Yeah?”

Eliot smiled again, and reached up to tuck his hair behind his ears. “You get water on my clean floor, and I’ll be moppin’ it up with your ass. Got that?”

He swallowed hard. “Got it.” Eliot nodded and walked away, and he turned back to the sink, whistling softly under his breath.

June Cleaver. With an international rap sheet and attitude.

 _End_


End file.
